


More Than All

by ivyfic



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-09
Updated: 2007-07-09
Packaged: 2017-10-16 21:07:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivyfic/pseuds/ivyfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn't until much later that Peter started to think about the fact of Claire, that she existed at all. And when he did, he realized he should have known about her a long time ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Than All

Peter didn't put the pieces together for a long time. He supposed that wasn't surprising—everything happened at once and he was too preoccupied with his powers and destiny to think about his brother's long-lost daughter as anything more than another piece of the puzzle.

It wasn't until much later that he started to think about the fact of Claire, that she existed at all. And when he did, he realized he should have known about her a long time ago. But when you're young, you accept an explanation of something mysterious and never question it again, whether it's that thunder comes from clouds bumping together or presents come from Santa Claus or that you saw your brother crying because something bad happened to him in the war.

Peter had thought about it a lot over the years, wondering what the war had been like for Nathan, what had happened to him over there. Nathan never talked about it, which Peter took as proof that it was _really bad_. When he was in junior high, _really bad_ had been a vague idea of blood and body parts and lots of explosions like in _Terminator 2_. When he was in college, _really bad_ had become a monstrous concept, now that he knew what kind of things happened in a war. It was funny that when an exposé came out after Nathan announced his candidacy giving proof that Nathan was stationed on an aircraft carrier in the Gulf and never saw combat, that hadn't changed Peter's belief at all. After all, there were bad things that could happen during a war even away from the front lines.

For all Peter wondered about what had happened to Nathan during the war to make him cry, he had never wondered if that was really the reason.

~*~

Peter was suspended from school when Nathan's enlistment was up. Peter'd been caught smoking a cigarette in the boys' room during a school dance. School dances were bullshit, anyway. A bunch of pimply boys on one side of the room, giggling girls on the other, hall monitors making sure no one was sucking face in the bushes—who wanted to be part of that? Peter thought whoever came up with seventh-grade dances was a prick who got off on watching kids get knocked down the social ladder. It was all bullshit—school, the dance, all of it.

Which was why he was in his room when Nathan arrived. He could hear his mother cooing all the way down in the main hall. Whatever. Not like he'd seen Nathan more than a handful of times in the past two years. Nathan had been ROTC, despite his mother's protests, which meant he graduated college just in time to be shipped over to the Gulf. When he was State-side, it seemed like Nathan'd rather spend his leave with his buddies picking up chicks than with his little brother. If Nathan thought he was going to get a big welcome home from Peter, he had another thing coming. Besides, he was still technically grounded.

Dinner was stilted. Their father had to run off after the salad course—some urgent business. Probably Linderman. That man said jump and dad was a freaking jack-rabbit. Nathan and Ma kept eyeing each other, like the calm before a storm. Peter hoped they got into a fight. It would be nice not to be the one being yelled at.

"So, Petey, how's school?" Nathan asked with a disingenuous smile. It was so condescending. Peter couldn't believe he used to admire the guy. Nathan was like...plastic, like he'd come perfectly formed out of a mold. Spray-paint him gold and stick him on a trophy.

"It's Peter," Peter said. He was rhythmically kicking the table leg, making his peas bounce on his plate.

"Okay, Peter." Nathan flashed that smile again.

"Peter's been suspended," Ma said with reproach. "For smoking in the bathroom." She jabbed at Peter's arm with her fork. "I just hope they don't expel you. Again."

Nathan pursed his lips and seemed to be searching for a safe topic. No one was even eating anything, just sitting staring at each other over bone china and crystal.

"It's bullshit, anyway," Peter mumbled.

"Peter! Language!"

"Whatever," Peter said, rolling his eyes, even though he knew his mother hated that.

Ma's cutlery clanged down on her plate. "Room. _Now_." Peter let himself be shooed away, even though he was still hungry. Small price to not have to sit in the same room with everybody's favorite son.

When they were out of the dining room, his mother grabbed his arm, hard. "Peter Petrelli, I raised you better than to have manners like that," she hissed. "Don't you roll your eyes at me! Your brother has just come home from protecting this country and everyone in it. The least you can do is behave." Peter looked over her shoulder. He could see Nathan sitting stiff as a board at the table, hands folded neatly in his lap. He didn't even look _human_ , more like a department store mannequin. He didn't understand why everyone was so over-the-moon. It wasn't like it was a real war. His social studies teacher said so. "You will stay in your room until you learn to keep a civil tongue!"

She dragged him up the stairs to his room, glaring daggers the whole way. It wasn't even a real punishment. He'd rather be here, anyway. At least here he could read comic books and didn't have to listen to a stranger act like he was part of the family.

~*~

Peter would have stayed in his room until Nathan left again, if he could have. He was sure it wouldn't be long—Nathan never seemed to want to stay. But he was still hungry, and he had missed dinner. Around ten o'clock he figured the servants would all have left and he could sneak into the pantry. He bet his mother and brother were in the drawing room sipping sherry and talking about debutantes or something stupid.

He didn't mean to eavesdrop, it was just that he heard his name and he was curious. "Looks like Peter's turned into a rebellious teenager," he heard his brother say.

The glass doors to the sitting room were partially open, the light spilling across the bottom of the staircase. Peter huddled halfway up the stairs, in the shadow, pressing his face to the bars. He could see half of Nathan's back through the door.

"He's not a teenager, not quite yet," his mother replied. "If I had my way, I'd keep him a child forever."

Nathan laughed and moved out of Peter's line of sight. The voices were soft, but he could still make them out. "I know you would."

"He misses you, you know." Peter pulled back in surprise. Where on earth had his mother gotten that idea? He absolutely did not miss Nathan. It was ridiculous. "You've barely seen him these past few years. I think with all this," she trailed off. "He's trying to get your attention." His mother walked into view and turned to face something Peter couldn't see, extending her hand. "It would do him a lot of good to have you around."

Nathan crossed into view. He turned back and for a moment Peter thought he'd been seen, but Nathan turned quickly towards the fireplace. "I can't stay, Ma."

His mother's posture, which had been entreating, stiffened immediately. "No."

"Ma—"

"Absolutely not."

Nathan turned back towards her. "I have—"

"You are not going back to Texas, you are not going to see that woman."

"Ma," Nathan pleaded.

"You are throwing your life away, don't you see that? Everything you've worked for, everything your father and I have worked for, all the dreams I have for you, you're throwing them away!" Peter had heard his mother yell before, many times, but never with quite so desperate an edge. "You can do anything, Nathan. You can have anything you want. Why are you doing this?"

"Ma, you have children, you have to understand."

"No, Nathan. It's not the same."

"How can you say that?"

His mother stretched out to Nathan, holding his hand in both of hers. "Nathan, please, let me handle it."

Nathan jerked away. "Meredith told me how you wanted to _handle_ it."

"I know it's hard for you to hear this, Nathan, but you have no perspective on this. You can't see what's really going on. Meredith is a manipulative little bitch—"

"Ma!"

"—she did this on purpose, and she did it for the money. She'll suck you dry."

"I'm flying to Texas tomorrow," Nathan said. "This conversation is over." He turned and strode to the door. Peter barely had time to scramble up the stairs and out of sight. He snuck back to his room. He stayed close to the door, hoping to hear more, but all he heard was the slamming of Nathan's bedroom door.

It figured, Peter thought as he stretched out on the carpet. Of course Nathan was going back to Texas. Good riddance.

~*~

Peter was woken by the maid the next morning when she opened the door into his side. He must have fallen asleep on the floor. It was already late.

After he got dressed, he stepped out to the balcony over the foyer. There were suitcases on the marble tile: Nathan's. He probably hadn't needed to unpack. If his brother was so eager to get away from the Petrellis, let him. Peter planned on leaving, too, as soon as he could.

He'd turned back to his room when he heard his brother's voice. "I'm not changing my mind."

"Nathan." Their mother's voice was uncharacteristically gentle, almost sad. Peter turned back to see her hand Nathan a folded newspaper. "I'm so sorry."

"What is this?" Nathan looked at his mother, confused, then his eye caught on something in the paper. "No. This can't—This isn't right." When he spoke again, his voice was choked. "Ma?"

"I'm sorry," she repeated, stroking his arm.

"Just—just go."

Peter couldn't believe what he was seeing. Nathan's shoulders were shaking. He was holding the paper tight with both hands. Before he realized what he was doing, Peter was drawn down the stairs. When he got closer he could see the tears shine on Nathan's cheek. This wasn't right at all. His brother was plastic, he was perfect, untouchable.

He must have made some noise because his mother's head whipped around, spotting him standing hesitantly at the bottom of the stairs. "Peter," she breathed and rushed to him.

"Ma, what?" Peter asked as she quickly led him out of the foyer, away from his brother. "Is Nathan _crying_?"

His mother looked him straight in the eye, unwavering. It was the first time he remembered her looking at him like an adult. He didn't like it. "Yes, he is."

"Why?" Before he could think about it, he continued. "Is this about the fight? I heard you fighting with him last night."

"No, Peter," she said. She rested both hands on his shoulders. She looked thoughtful for a moment, then continued. "Sometimes things happen during war, things that can hurt even a man like your brother."

"But the war ended a year ago. Why is he crying now?"

"These things, they can hurt for a long time." She gathered Peter up into a hug. Suddenly she was his mother again, all smothering affection, no trace of the hard woman that had been looking at him the moment before. "When you're older you'll understand, but I hope you never do." She kissed his messy hair. "Oh, I hope you never do."

~*~

The next few days, it felt like someone had died. Nathan didn't come out of his room, not even for the mandatory family dinner. Their father looked pained, the same way he did right before his heart attack. Ma was always shushing Peter, keeping him away from Nathan. She said he just needed a little space.

Peter had gone back to find the newspaper, but there'd been nothing in it. Not one article about the war. Just some boring stuff about a debate between George Bush and Pat Buchanan, a massacre someplace Peter'd never heard of and a suspected arson.

Almost a week later, he crept by Nathan's room at night. He was just going to the bathroom down the hall for a glass of water. True, he had his own bathroom, but he hadn't seen Nathan for days and wanted to make sure he was okay. This wasn't like Nathan at all.

Nathan's door was open and Peter caught a glimpse of his mother sitting on the bed next to Nathan's curled back. She was running her fingers gently over his bristle-cut hair. "In time, you'll realize that this was all for the best."

Nathan pulled away from her hand. "I am not talking to you about this, ever again." Nathan's voice was hollow and quiet, like he barely had the breath to speak.

~*~

The next morning Nathan emerged from his room. He was clean-shaven, his polo shirt pressed, but he looked somehow emptier than he had before. Peter didn't think he looked plastic at all anymore.

Peter found him on the veranda after breakfast, finally away from their parents and the servants.

"You okay?"

Nathan turned around and gave Peter a smile. It was different now, less forced than before, but just as big a lie. "Yeah, Petey, I'm fine."

"Okay," Peter said, letting the nickname slide. He stepped up to Nathan and bumped his arm. He wasn't quite tall enough yet to go shoulder to shoulder with his brother, but he was confident he'd get there someday. "You staying in New York?"

Nathan tousled his hair. "Yeah."

"Cool," Peter said. To his surprise, Nathan pulled him into a hug, one hand still mussing his hair. Peter hugged back—he thought Nathan might need it.

Nathan pulled away after a moment. He took a deep breath. "Yeah, looks like I am."

~*~

Peter found Nathan on the veranda in almost the same spot he'd stood fifteen years ago. "You know, I never realized," he said.

Nathan looked at him, bemused. "Never realized what?"

"It must have been hard for you. Thinking Claire was dead."

Nathan hung his head for a moment, then looked at Peter, his eyes squinted. "Do I want to know where this is coming from?"

"Just thinking." That evoked Nathan's usual smirk, though he didn't take the bait.

Nathan looked back out over the garden, until Peter was looking at his profile. "It wasn't like I was really her father." He shrugged. "The only time I saw her she was almost a year old." He was quiet for a moment. "Ma called me a glorified sperm donor."

Peter grimaced. "I remember, when I was twelve, you coming home from the Navy. You spent a lot of time in your room. And I thought I had the corner on teen angst."

Nathan smiled softly. "I didn't think you remembered that."

"Well, I had no idea what was going on. Ma told me some crap about the war and post-traumatic something or other."

Nathan shook his head and rubbed an eyebrow. "Sounds like Ma."

"For years I thought you were hiding some secret horror story from over there."

"Pete, the most exciting thing that happened while I was in the Gulf was midnight missile drills. Trust me—no horror stories." Nathan laughed.

"No," Peter said. "Just you finding out about the fire."

That cleared the smile off Nathan's face. "Ma had it wrong. I wasn't going to Texas to marry my trailer trash girlfriend. I was going to fight for sole custody of Claire."

Peter was surprised. "You were?"

"Meredith and I—we had an intense fling, but she was never mother material. I come back from overseas and she's eight months pregnant. Ma's probably right—she was probably gold-digging. But that didn't change..." Nathan stopped and looked at Peter. "She was carrying my daughter."

Peter just waited for Nathan to continue.

"Ah, Pete. I was so naïve. I thought I could just bring Claire back here and still have that perfect life. But what's the one thing worse than marrying your mistress and raising your lovechild? It's dumping your mistress and taking the child. God. I'd only seen her once and I was going to fuck up her life."

"You were doing what you thought was best." It was cold comfort, but Peter didn't know what else to say.

"I was doing what I thought was best for _me_. It's better that she was given to the Bennett's. Sounds like she's had a great life."

"Come on, Nathan. Give yourself some credit."

"No, I know I'm a terrible father."

Peter grabbed hold of Nathan's shoulders and turned him so they were facing head on. "Nathan, you're a wonderful father. The boys adore you."

Nathan shook his head. "You used to adore Dad. That doesn't mean anything. No, I'm a rich father who can pay for wonderful nannies."

"Nathan..." Peter curved his hand over the back of Nathan's neck, but his brother was still looking past him. "If there hadn't been a fire, would you have stayed with Claire?"

"Oh, come on. If I'd stayed, there would have been no Heidi, no boys."

"But would you have?" Peter asked again.

Nathan shrugged and pulled away. "I don't know. I thought so, but I was still keeping it a secret, so maybe I wasn't convinced."

"Or maybe that was Ma talking."

"Maybe."

They stood together for a while until the chill in the November air started to seep through Peter's coat. He was just about to turn away when he heard Nathan speak again, quiet as a breath. "I would have stayed with her. I would have been her father."

Peter wrapped an arm around his brother's shoulder. "You still are."

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I have pretentiously titled the story from an e.e. cummings poem:  
>  _because my Father lived his soul  
>  love is the whole and more than all_  
> —[my father moved through dooms of love](http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/eecummings/11941) by e.e. cummings


End file.
